


A Proper Christening

by honestys_easy



Category: Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: Lockout fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-11
Updated: 2010-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal was planning a perfect night in his new house-- until he locked himself out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Proper Christening

**Author's Note:**

> When David and Andrew both tweeted that they were in Washington, DC last weekend, the idea for this fic started burrowing in my brain, hahaha. And once Neal said that he had locked himself out, it gave me the perfect excuse to write it.

Neal could see the smirk on Andy's face before he ever pulled into the driveway.

"Shut up," he muttered half-heartedly, slouching on the brand new stoop his ass had gotten acquainted with during the past hour. He stretched out his legs, tired of pacing in David's driveway searching for the cavalry, the warm California sun baking the redbrick stones underneath his bare feet. He could remember his damn phone when slipping out of the house to grab the mail, the device as essential to him as another arm; but reminding himself to take his keys along the way, never mind his boots, was apparently a different story.

Andy couldn't help but snicker at the sight, Neal frustrated and defeated, an automatic lock his downfall. "What's it been, six days since you moved in?" he joked as he approached the front door, the new house gradually feeling as familiar to him as the man waiting outside for his arrival. "Surprised it took you this long."

"This wouldn't have happened if Dave and Andrew were here." Neal shook a finger at his absent housemates, now both half a country away, their stint as tourists in the nation's capital turning into Neal's exiled predicament. One phone call and David would have let him back in, albeit with a requisite ribbing about the situation; Neal's not sure if he would even give Andrew the satisfaction of letting him back into the house. And, considering he had not yet trained Sixx to unlock the door for him, he had turned to his third contingency plan.

That contingency plan was now dangling a set of keys in his hand on a silver ring; the spare set David had given Andy for just this purpose. It hadn't been a matter of _if_ Neal would lock himself out of the new house; among his trusted friends--of which Andy was the most trusted--it had only been a matter of _when_.

"I could let you stay here till they get back, then," Andy teased, his eyes scrutinizing Neal, watching his frustration ebb to make way for a playful smile playing upon his pierced lips.

Something sparked in Neal's ice blue eyes; he knew a challenge when he spotted one. "Sixx would starve," he said, both men knowing the brothers Cook weren't due back on the West Coast for at least another day. He stretched his legs out even longer on the stoop, resting his elbows against the top stair, so close to home, yet so far.

Andy shrugged his shoulders, unfazed, as he took a step closer, then another. A quick glance at Neal's reclining frame was all it took for desire to flare up in him, his eyes growing large and dark despite the California sun. He might have had something Neal wanted, but he was quickly reminded he wanted something of Neal's, too. "He'd be fine," he joked. Another step and he was at the foot of the stoop, just barely within Neal's barefooted reach. "If he were hungry, he'd eat Dublin."

"I'd starve." Neal learned forward, closer to Andy, closer to the set of keys. He wondered if he'd be branded a bad neighbor if he ravished Andy in broad daylight on the front walk.

He felt a nudge against the underside of his bare foot; Andy, running the toe of a Converse sneaker against the stretch of skin, from ball to heel. Fuck, he'd be lucky if they even _made_ it inside the house. "Oh, I don't know," Andy's voice was low, a playful smirk trying and failing to hide the breathy lust in his tone. "I'm sure someone would take you in. Folks love strays."

With a devious grin Neal rose up from the stairs, his arm outstretched, reaching for the keys dangling in Andy's grasp. "I'm no stray. I belong to someone."

But before his fingers could make contact with the metal, Andy pulled them out of his reach, leaning closer to whisper into Neal's ear. He knew exactly to whom Neal belonged. "I think you've got to earn these first."

***

Neal had this planned all along; he'd be a fool and a liar to say he wasn't anticipating this ever since they moved in. A bottle of wine chilling in the fridge, the Greek takeout restaurant down the street on speed dial; the Cooks' departure for Washington left Neal the perfect opportunity: this place needed to be properly christened.

Of course, he hadn't factored locking himself out of the house into his own plan. Andy was now here hours before Neal had planned to call him over; the wine was tepid, the Greek place they both adored not even open for business. And with a smirk of superiority Andy had the upper hand when he opened the front door with a flourish, a generous favor he expected to have repaid to him in kind.

But, Neal surmised with a lustful flick of his tongue along his lip, following Andy into the house, plans can change on a whim; he'd have to learn to be flexible.

"Home sweet home," Andy announced, his arms open wide in the front room, indulgently ushering Neal back into the house. He was enjoying this far too much, swooping in to rescue Neal from a weekend of exile or an embarrassing, expensive call to a locksmith; eventually Neal would take his revenge, this was certain, and Andy wouldn't have it any other way. "Now at least you won't starve--"

A sharp blow from behind cut off his words, tackled the breath right out of his lungs; the set of spare keys flew from his palm and landed with a clatter onto the tiled floor. Neal's arms wrapped around his waist, forceful but not unwelcome, as his hands quickly roamed across Andy's chest, dipping underneath his shirt to make contact with skin. A press of lips and cool metal to the back of Andy's neck was only a precursor to Neal's more carnal desires, the tenderness of the kiss overshadowed by a possessive bite, taking Andy's breath away for an entirely different reason.

It wasn't until Neal pressed them both against the wall of the front room, hips grinding against Andy's ass through layers of denim, hands already exploring expanses of flesh they knew by heart, that Andy was able to regain his bearings, think of anything besides the hot breath on his neck and where else he wanted those hands to wander. It looked like Neal was cashing in on that revenge fairly soon.

"If I lose those keys," he deadpanned, the metal ring out of sight and quickly out of mind as Neal unbuttoned his jeans, slipping a palm beneath the waistband. "Dave'll kill me."

His own response was a stuttered moan; Neal's tongue dragged a line from the nape of Andy's neck to his ear, tracing its delicate lines like an artist's brush. "Dave's not here," Neal reminded him, pulling the lobe between his lips, feeling his pulse quicken and his desire swell when Andy hissed in pleasure. "Neither is Andrew. We've got this place to ourselves."

He caught a glint of trouble in Andy's eye as they shifted, one hand coming up to cradle Neal's chin, the other hooking behind Neal's frame to cup his ass through jeans, pulling them closer. "Well, what are you looking to do about that?" he asked, his smile giving away the answer.

Neal captured those smiling lips with his own, a demanding, insistent kiss that told Andy exactly what he wanted to do. A new home, alone together for the time being, empty rooms begging to be filled with their presence. It wasn't a question of what they could do, Neal thought as Andy rolled his hips back against him, lips parting, inviting Neal in. It was a question of where.

***

His bedroom was a mess but Andy guessed he shouldn't have expected anything different. Neal wasn't a settler by nature, and their past year on the road only deepened his apathy towards unpacking. The floor was covered in cardboard boxes, labeled in Neal's distinctive Sharpie scrawl, the bulk of them untouched since the day Andy helped lug everything in there in the first place. The only things unpacked in the room were exactly what Andy expected: a small stack of notebooks and a pen, Neal's creative inspiration hitting him regardless of circumstance; an acoustic guitar, settled lovingly on its stand, its siblings taking permanent residence in the studio downstairs; and Neal's bed, also littered with boxes and Hefty bags full of his possessions, with just enough space cordoned off to fit Neal's frame.

"It'll get done eventually," Neal explained, in the short time his mouth was not occupied with exploring Andy's, as he lifted his shirt over his head and tossed it into the maze of cardboard. Returning to his proper place against Andy's lips, Neal inched the other man's shirt up his chest, his body eager to feel the hot skin waiting for him underneath, and trying to calculate an improbable act of physics by undressing Andy without ever having to stop kissing him. He was on the verge of considering tearing the offending fabric off with his teeth when Andy made a noise of protest, breaking their kiss.

Where Neal was instinctual, Andy turned practical; he took one glance at the controlled chaos in Neal's bedroom and knew their passion would do more than just disrupt it. Already Neal was hard, his cock straining in his jeans, dying for release, and Andy--whose own jeans had been discarded somewhere off the staircase railing--didn't care to hide his labored breathing, his hips making short, needy thrusts into Neal as they stood in the doorway. He had a feeling some cardboard boxes--or, more aptly, a room full of boxes--would not contain them.

"Is there anywhere else..." he trailed off, eyes fluttering closed as Neal took hold of his cock, brushing his thumb against the sensitive crown. Arching into the touch as Neal leaned in, Andy soon felt the cool wood of the doorframe at his back, with Neal's body pressed against his front. Fuck, he didn't care if they had sex in the fucking _hallway_ , so long as they got to it _soon_.

"Bathroom," Neal suggested into his ear, a whisper softer than the metallic sound of a zipper unhinging, Neal's jeans not long for this world. He thought of the shower stall in the bathroom down the hall that caught David's eye when househunting, equipped with multiple massage jets, waterfall showerhead, full-length glass and mirror walls. He could already feel the steam permeate his skin, everything slick and wet in the glass stall as he fucked Andy against one of those jets until their flesh wrinkled like prunes.

But Andy let out a low whine of disapproval, the choice too unoriginal, too pedestrian. You've had Neal Tiemann in one shower, you've had him in them all. "And...?" he asked, sliding Neal's jeans off his hips, grinning in satisfaction as Neal reluctantly disentangled himself from their embrace to discard the pants properly. Now nothing stood between their naked bodies but air, and when Neal was upon Andy again, grasping both of their cocks in his palm, sandwiching them between their stomachs, even that was in short supply.

Neal quirked an eyebrow as he dipped his head low to rake teeth down Andy's throat. He felt the pulse quicken beneath his lips and thought about tasting something else on that skin besides Andy's familiar, heady scent. Granted, Neal hadn't gone grocery shopping since the move, and the only things edible in the house were takeout packets of soy sauce and leftovers he had abandoned for too long in the car; but it had his mind reeling, soon desiring to bend Andy over the island, hear their moans echo off the stainless steel appliances. "Kitchen?"

The low chuckle in Andy's throat vibrated off of Neal's lips, his twin piercings like a tuning fork, marking Andy's lustful laugh pitch-perfect. Still, Andy wanted more. "And...?"

This time it was Neal's turn to laugh. "Fuck, I love you."

***

As playfully difficult as Andy had been, his true motives were less than discerning. Neal discovered this in the best possible way when, on their haphazard journey back downstairs towards the kitchen, a sharp tug at his wrist brought him stumbling into a darkened room, with a thick, plush carpet underfoot and Andy on his knees.

"Dear God, this better not be Andrew's room," Andy muttered before bracing Neal up against the wall, each hand pressed against a hipbone, and ravenously took his cock into his mouth.

Neal threw his head back and moaned at the sudden movement, the wet heat of Andy's mouth descending upon him, startling and familiar all at the same time. They'd been like this for years now but every time stirred the sensations anew, like they were mad teenagers in heat, aching for each other. But they were teenagers no more, the rough stubble turning into a full-fledged mustache on Andy's face and the experienced ink on Neal's fingers as he threaded them through Andy's hair told that story well enough. They were home alone and they knew exactly how to exploit that opportunity.

With one hand at the back of Andy's head, a tender yet insistent entreaty to not stop, _never_ stop, Neal leaned back against the wall, his free arm absently running along the plaster and snagging the light switch on its path. Instantly the room lit up in a warm glow, illuminating the two men, every movement and ministration of Andy's between Neal's legs fully visible, like spotlights on a work of art. Neal's mind was still scrambling to catch up with the sensations flooding his senses, spilling over and replenishing each time Andy took him in deeper, a clever tongue lapping at the head, a mouth that knew what Neal wanted better than any other. It was always times like this--the smell of well-earned sweat beading off their naked bodies, Andy's hands all over Neal, trespassing into places no one else explored--that Neal wanted nothing more than to be with Andy, kiss swollen, used lips, tell him how amazing he makes him feel.

But to do so would mean Andy would have to stop what he was currently doing--one hand slowly stroking Neal's cock at the base, two fingers and a thumb, like a guitar chord, the other hand mimicking its pace on his own member--and if he stopped now, Neal thought he might scream.

As the recessed lighting overhead illuminated the pair, it also brought to light the rest of the room: pale, plush carpeting underfoot, a massive television holding court against the far wall with discarded Guitar Hero components its loyal subjects. The pinball machine stood harmlessly in the corner, one of David's many gifts to himself now that his bank account matched his adolescent wish list. Neal had to chuckle in spite of himself; it certainly wasn't Andrew's room, but the couple could do a bit of damage in here, as well.

"We're in the den," he said, and with a disappointed groan he felt Andy retreat from his position, the warmth of his mouth giving way to the sharp sting of central air. But the sinking feeling in his heart quickly melted when he spied the wicked grin on Andy's lips, the cursory scan of the room with lustful eyes. Andy was always thinking, always crafting some scheme in his head when he let more boisterous voices come to the forefront. Most never came to fruition, the whims of a wandering mind rarely taking hold, but no matter what, Neal always listened.

Andy snickered, his tone a lazy, seductive drawl. "Were you looking to watch a movie?" he joked, slowly rising to his feet, at eye level with Neal. "Round of pool?" He leaned in close, the heat emanating from their bodies like a sauna between them, the air warm and charged with fire. Neal shuddered with pleasure as Andy closed the final space between them, snaking one arm around his waist, their bodies flush against one another, Neal's hard cock now joined in Andy's grip with his own.

"Want..." Neal stumbled over his words as his mind lost the power to speak, the feel of Andy's sure, steady hand and the familiar cock brushing against his overwhelming his senses. Against his will he let out a moan when Andy's head dipped low to graze his lips along Neal's jawline, flick his tongue into the hollow of Neal's throat, breath hot upon his skin. There was no amount of central air conditioning that could cool the desire stirring in him, his hips thrusting into Andy's touch, his eyes dark and his mind blown. This wasn't what Neal had planned but _fuck_ , he wouldn't stop it for the world.

He finally regained his bearings when a bite at the inkstained flesh on his neck snapped his mind back to attention, and a twisting squeeze of Andy's hand dared him to take more. "I want..." he started again, waiting until Andy's gaze was upon him, intent on every breath pressed forth from his lips, giving Neal his full attention. With a growl Neal cupped Andy's ass into his grip with both palms, a daring finger sliding into the cleft, marking his intent. "I want to lay you on top of that pinball machine," his finger found its purchase, and this time it was Andy's turn to moan. "And fuck you till it tilts."

As appealing as that sounded to Andy's ears--and to other parts of his body, a shiver of pleasure shooting up his spine as Neal circled the hole teasingly, a tantalyzing promise--he wasn't planning to begin and end their encounter that day in the den. Besides, he considered, he may have been slender, slim, but he doubted the pinball machine would withstand even the weight of his body, much less the toil Neal looked to put it through. Properly christening the house was a naughty, but forgivable, offense; wrecking the place while David and Andrew were out of town would involve a bit more explanation.

Andy arched back with yearning, Neal's initiative and his exploring hands turning his smirk into needy pants. "I think," he suggested, lips pressed against Neal's flesh, the deep baritone of his voice entering Neal's body as a curved index finger entered his own. "I've got a better idea."

***

Neal always found himself receptive to Andy's ideas, his practical mind balancing Neal's emotion-fueled one, working in a perfect harmony more than their voices, even their bodies, could accomplish. It was what made them such great collaborators, and even better lovers, over the years: each man valued their ability to compromise, see the other side of a situation, open up their own ideas for review and criticism. David always joked that they must have been soulmates, even without the fucking; Andy and Neal typically agreed, though added that would have made their friendship far less fun. But it was undeniable to them that their two heads were better than one, and whether in the studio or in the throes of passion, when they worked together, something magical always happened.

That day, they were making some magic in both.

" _Fuck,_ " Neal moaned into the still basement air, gritting his teeth at the tight pleasure enveloping his senses. At any other moment would have remarked on how well the walls absorbed his voice, the thick insulation and expensive carpeting lining the room doing wonders for the studio's acoustics. But he was a bit distracted at that particular moment, by one of the few things on this planet that could distract him from the luxury and excitement of having his very own recording studio in his house: a tight, hot body writhing underneath him, the smooth, tanned expanses of flesh across Andy's back, the familiar bow and sway of Andy's shoulderblades as he thrust back against Neal, always wanting more.

"If you're gonna _say_ it," Andy warned, his breath coming in bursts, his arms locked and trembling slightly as he looked over his shoulder at Neal. "Then stop admiring the view and _do_ it."

He was awarded with a thrust of Neal's hips that Andy felt rush up his spine, a fullness that made him cough up his own words and whimper. "Bossy, bossy," he teased, soothing the snap of his hips with a kiss to Andy's shoulder, resting his forehead in the valley of Andy's back.

They were a mess of rugburns and bites, flowering bruises from rough, insistent hands and a well-earned weariness in their muscles that followed them to every room they claimed. Each room in the house left its own unique brand on the pair, just as they left kisses, gropes and memories in the plaster and wood; Neal banged his knee on the kitchen counter, and Andy would be feeling it for days afterwards when a miscalculation on the stairs nearly sent him tumbling dick-first over the railing. Maybe they were getting to old for this shit, Neal thought when they were in the spare bathroom, his back pressed uncomfortably into the medicine cabinet while his front was pressed quite comfortably into Andy. But then a shift of positions, a steady hand guiding his cock back inside, and Andy's whispered plea to fuck him harder gave Neal his second--and third, and fourth--wind.

The studio wasn't the first place they had moved from the den but it might have to be their last; Neal felt a coiling tension in his gut, his thrusting growing more erratic, Andy's ministrations taking their pleasurable toll. Just the thought of Andy underneath him, all around him, enveloping Neal in a familiar, tight warmth sent his knees shaking, struggling with his stamina to hold on.

But the apparent fact alone that Andy was just as far gone as he enlivened Neal, stoked a fire within him that refused to let even one second of their passion be extinguished. He heard Andy hold back a moan underneath him, a shudder of pleasure censored through a clenched jaw; reluctantly, his own desires screaming inside him in protest, Neal stopped the ever-present movement of his hips, slowing himself until he was motionless inside of Andy. This would never do.

"No need to be quiet, Skib." Trailing the tip of his tongue along Andy's shoulderblades, marking a pathway up to his ear, Neal reminded him, taking a leisurely nip at the flesh there. He was rewarded with a soft sigh breaking past Andy's lips and a firm roll of his hips back into Neal, pressing him in deeper. "Soundproof studio." Stretching his arm out in front of the pair, Neal's fingers brushed against the soft, padded walls of the basement room, a dealbreaker when David sought his dream home. Neal had spent more time in that studio than David, the quiet calm of the room inspiring him to spend hours on end with a guitar and an idea, no longer restricted to the expensive, impersonal recording studios of his and Andy's youth. Where in his bedroom he only unpacked essentials, down here Neal felt he had already lived a lifetime, his guitars taking permanent residence, the soundboards already mastered under his creative touch. Six days since moving in and the studio was his home.

Now, he planned to make it _truly_ feel like home. His voice was a possessive growl in Andy's ear, a fierce affection he only let overtake him when buried deep inside Andy, overcome with passion rather than reason. This was not the time for restraint, to hold in the moans and cries of pleasure they could coax from each other's bodies; there was no one to wake, no friends to bother with their noise. Neal wanted to hear everything. "No one's gonna hear you come--" Neal shifted his weight, the wall before them shouldering the load, pushing himself deeper into Andy's heat. "--Except me."

Andy let out a shaky breath, refusing just on stubborn will alone not to give Neal the satisfaction of moaning out loud from the movement. It wasn't that Neal didn't make him feel good--hell, at that moment every inch of his body wanted to throw Neal a thank-you party--but if Neal wanted to hear him come, he would do it on his terms. He craned his neck to the side as much as their position would allow, one eye catching Neal's determined stare. "Make me."

Once again the gauntlet was thrown down; once again Neal saw the defiant, playful challenge in Andy's eyes, in the curve of his smile, and he couldn't help but oblige. He pulled his hips back far enough that he nearly slid out of Andy, feeling both of their bodies shiver from loss of contact, the crown of his cock just barely pulsing inside. But just before the exposure was unbearable Neal snapped his hips back against Andy roughly, sheathing him fully and without warning. The sudden tightness pressing against his hard cock made Neal see stars, but it garnered the desired response from Andy: with a yelp that melted into an unmistakably erotic moan, he pushed back against Neal, desperately wanting more.

" _God,_ " Andy gasped, the air literally fucked out of him. Neal gave no respite, using the arm propped against the wall to thrust in deep, grunting every time he pressed himself in to both his and Andy's limits, his own lungs short on breath as well. A sense of determination swept over him, like a warm breeze of a California morning: both the studio and Andy's body felt like home to Neal, places that were familiar, a solace he could steal away to for however long he needed.

Another thrust, harder this time, Neal's mind focused only on the movement of his hips and the grip of his free hand on Andy's waist; another yelp from Andy, testy this time, though he wouldn't ever dare tell Neal to stop. " _Shit_ , Neal," he says, taking in deep gulps of air, fingers tangling into the carpet. "Don't fucking break me."

"Never." A tender kiss at the nape of Andy's neck was the soothing answer he needed, Neal's voice thick with emotion. He metered his overzealousness with a sure hand, dropping from its position on the wall and running down the side of Andy's body, slick with sweat. He never wanted to hurt him, but God _damn,_ did he want to hear him scream.

With a shift of his weight their alignments changed, the length of Neal's cock brushing inside that familiar bundle of nerves inside Andy that made him unable to resist any longer. "Louder," Neal requested as Andy let out a moan, dropping to his elbows, angling his hips directly against Neal's.

A faster pace, Neal hitting home every time he pressed into him, and Andy could do nothing but oblige. "Fuck," he shouted into the carpet, the studio deadening their moans of pleasure, the outside world oblivious to what went on inside those walls. Neal would not relent, the hand caressing Andy's flesh dipping in between his legs, finding Andy's cock as if by instinct, by touch alone. And with the way this was going--pangs of pleasure and sensation running sharp and deep through his body with each thrust, Neal's hand stroking his length in time with the pace--Andy would have never wanted him to.

Neal's own breath was coming in ragged bursts as he teetered closer to the edge, the choked gasps of air audible even to his own ears; he had no doubt Andy could hear them as well. He wondered if the other man got off on hearing Neal's pleasure as much as Neal did with Andy's voice, reveling in the different modulations, how Neal's very actions determined his ecstasy. Low and guttural or strained, reaching close to notes Andy would never attempt on stage, Neal loved hearing it all, the deep baritone of Andy's voice taking on quite a different tone than when he was singing Neal's words. His thoughts wandering, Neal contemplated writing a song just on the heights of emotions Andy's voice could lead him to when he felt a deep shudder underneath him, and a moan finally breaking mid-stride; there was his answer right there.

"God, you sound amazing," came Andy's strained voice, muffled by the carpet, his head facing the floor. He was too far gone in his revelry to even turn his head, try to look back at Neal and catch that connection they cherished for years; Andy feared if he looked at Neal now, it would be all over.

A snappy retort came to Neal's mind--how Neal's voice was merely the backup, a foundation, and Andy's would always be the star--but his lips would not form the words, his body refusing to give him the lucidity for coherent thought. It came out instead as a deep groan, melding with Andy's in the room; a harmony to his lover's melody. If they were recording right now it would have been heaven; wild voices and carnal desires never before captured on record. But this sound--their voices, beyond language, beyond any thoughts other than sensation and each other--was far too precious for Neal to share.

Andy was panting harder now, and Neal could feel the tension in his body everywhere--the walls around his cock tightened, pressing so suddenly Neal had to bite down on his lip none-too-gently to distract him from his own release. "Don't stop," Andy pleaded, breathless and needy; reaching down, he covered Neal's own hand with his, wrapped around his cock, urging him to a faster pace.

"Never," Neal repeated, louder this time, and though he wished he could comply and fuck Andy until the world ended, he felt with great certainty in his bones he wouldn't have to.

One final push of Andy's weight against Neal's hips and he was gone, cock jerking in their joined hands and coating their fingers with cum, spilling hasty drops on the carpet below them. Neal could no longer control his own passion, a tension that simmered and burned underneath his skin until that moment, feeling Andy's orgasm all around him, hearing him shout out Neal's name, uninhibited by the fear that someone might overhear. He let himself go, pumping his hips with a fierceness that caused Andy's body to tremble in aftershock, emptying himself of desire and all the sounds his throat and his instincts could muster.

That sound--like their worlds were forged and torn apart all at once--and the ones that came after it were all Neal's, stored in his memory and exclusive only to the pair. The slow, honey-dripped sound of sweat-slicked skin slipping apart, the rustle of limbs atop plush carpet, the satiated pants from their lungs breathing in tandem, gradually returning to normal. These were the sounds that made Neal wish he had the forethought to be recording right now.

"You don't usually want to hear me like that." Andy had turned himself around once they disentangled from one another, desperate to look Neal in the eye, catch sight of affection no longer overwhelmed by lust he knew he would find there.

Humming in contentment, Neal reached out to brush along Andy's jawline, first with his hand, then his lips. "Thought I'd seize the opportunity." His voice was soft, a stark contrast to the moans and shouts they had just recently demanded of each other, like a calm, placid waterfront after the storm. He smiled against Andy's skin as the other man leaned into the touch, enjoying the slow, lazy affection they didn't entertain in any other room of the house. Trailing his kisses upwards, Neal finally claimed Andy's mouth with his own once again, his eyes drifting closed as a heady, warm surge of emotion swept over him.

It was only when Andy leaned back into the kiss, his mind and body as open and receptive as his mouth to Neal, that they realized the mark their christening left on the house.

"Fuck," Neal muttered, with an entirely different inflection than his voice had used only minutes before.

Begrudgingly Andy agreed, a frown decorating his thickening mustache. "We're gonna have to tell Dave about this, aren't we."

***

"...The den."

The last time Neal and Andy had seen that deep of a frown on David Cook's face, Dublin had tried to housetrain himself on David's Les Paul.

"But not the pinball machine," Andy was quick to point out, his friend's precious impulse buy spared.

A curl of his lip and a defeated sigh showed David was far from grateful. "The kitchen?"

Neal snickered, unrepentant. A tattooed arm snaked around Andy's waist, his smile triumphant. "Twice."

The look of horror stricken across Andrew's face made it worth everything. "But I eat food there!"

David pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head slightly. "Please tell me you spared the studio," he said, already knowing the soundproof basement room would be too tempting for his best friends to pass up.

Sadly, his instincts were correct. "Sorry," Neal mumbled, though the hand creeping underneath the hem of Andy's shirt, fingers caressing the skin, revealed how little he meant the apology.

"We'll pay for the carpet steaming," Andy chimed, which only caused David's frown to deepen, his palm to come up and rest flat against his forehead.

"You've ruined my house," he lamented.

"Hey, it's my house, too," was Neal's protest, relaxing when David shook his head, the wisps of a smile breaking down his offended facade.

A familiar, comforting hand slid up Neal's back, in between his shoulderblades and coming to rest at the nape of his neck, Andy's fingers kneading gently into the muscle. With a quick glance to the side they shared a secret smile, oblivious to David's half-hearted threats to take away Andy's spare set of keys, knowing that at least for one May afternoon, they had made that new house feel like a home.


End file.
